


All Feathers and Cream

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Coping, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Ficlet, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a thousand different reasons for her to slit the overpriced steak into slivers, to eat the peas one at a time and swirl it all across the plate, rearranging and rearranging without ever mixing it enough to look a mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Feathers and Cream

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger warning** for disordered eating. Written for the prompt 'playing with your food again,' title from "American Girls" by Counting Crows.

He always watches her eat, studies her, fine-painted fingernails and wicked washed-out fingers going white-knuckled around thick heavy silver, crumpling and twisting in the embroidered napkins, dim light of the dining room bleeding through her wineglass to settle on her knuckles. She always insists on formal dinner, the same place settings every night, her settled at the head of the table and him first along the side, her right foot brushing against his left in spite of all the space they have. It’s only that one meal; the rest of the day all bets are off, string cheese and celery and leftovers grabbed from the fridge as Rose’s heels echo off the tile and Dave revises and revises setlists, or cornflakes and cheerios and crackers pulled from the cabinets while Dave lounges shirtless against the wall in pajama pants that don’t fit right and Rose perches on the kitchen table in a stained black cami, too long and sliding off her shoulders. And he watches her then, too, just as carefully and double, but it’s easier then. There, he just has to see whether she’s actually eating or not. Dinner, well… dinner gets complicated.

In some ways it doesn't change so much, but there’s a thousand different reasons for her to slit the overpriced steak into slivers, to eat the peas one at a time and swirl it all across the plate, rearranging and rearranging without ever mixing it enough to look a mess. Sometimes it’s simple, straight-up, and he has to sit and watch and count the bites she takes; sometimes she’s trying to fool herself, not him, trying to make herself believe she’s eating less than she really is; sometimes she’s working herself up to force-feeding herself. He can always, always tell, but it always takes a while.

And then there’s nights like _this._

Nights like tonight, she slides a piece of swordfish sideways across the plate and watches him out of the corner of her eye, lifts an onion halfway to her lips - rich deep lipstick red, smudging slightly at the crooked-up corners - and drops it down again, licks mashed potatoes off her fork with half a loving minute for each glinting tine, and he knows it doesn't taste good enough for that. He cooked it, for fuck’s sake, he should know.

“What’s it gonna take tonight?” he asks her, lacing his hands behind his head as he glances down at his half-eaten plate - half-eaten, yeah, whatever, she always feeds him too much anyway. He’s not the one to worry about here, not even close. She looks up at him, flutters her eyelashes so innocently he’s amazed lightning doesn’t strike her dead.

“Whatever could you possibly be talking about?” she asks. Her knee bumps against his, and he rolls his eyes.

“Eat the damn food, Lalonde. It’s not like cooking it was easy.”

“I’ll hire a cook if you prefer, darling dearest,” she says, setting her fork down to smooth back her hair. “Don’t trouble your pretty little head about the expense; I can always work a little more if it becomes a stretch.”

“No need, honey,” he says, batting his eyelashes in turn, and quickly realigns his face into stricken loneliness as he revises the game. “I only want to help you, you know. All that dreadful work, and you’re gone so long, and there’s so little to do here all alone… leave me my simple comforts. Anything I can do to ease your burden.”

“Anything to make you happy,” she sighs, cutting into the swordfish again. “It’s delicious, sugar. Pure perfection.” The fish doesn’t move a millimeter closer to her mouth. Fuck. Fuck, fuck fuck. He might keep playing, but the last few nights - fuck. He sighs, leans forward, elbows braced against the table.

“Rose. Eat the damn fish.”

It’s a challenge, and God but he hopes he read the signs right - a familiar flash of panic, gravity turning uncertain for a thin-split second, and then her eyes flash as she raises her wineglass to her lips.

“Persuade me,” she invites, and drinks. He stabs his knife into his own chunk of fish, raises his eyebrows and stretches it out, measuring it inch by inch, narrowly managing not to land an elbow in his mashed potatoes as he leans in to her. Her mouth twists up, half-amused, as she glances from the offering to him.

“Generally, brother dear,” she drawls, “when a lady says to persuade her, she doesn’t mean at knifepoint.”

“Never claimed to be a gentleman,” he points out, low and just a bit uneven, and she chuckles. Her teeth glint.

“Very true,” she says, and leans in, bites. Her tongue teases along the fish far more than could possibly be needed, but she _eats_ , a chunk large enough to really need to chew, and he’s busy enough watching that to twitch as her fingernails dig into the inseam of his jeans, close along his thigh.

“I’ll eat as long as you stay quiet,” she promises, working upwards inch by steady inch. It’s not hard enough to bruise, not yet; he’s not willing to bet she’ll stay that way. Already he’s too close to breathless, tongue waiting along the edge of his lip and free hand twisting to the edge of the table.

“That’s more kinds of fucked-up than I can count,” he murmurs, scraping up her mashed potatoes. She laughs, high-pitched and clattering; it echoes.

“I’m sure it is,” she says, sliding her hand up until it brushes the skin of his stomach, fingers trailing torturous and feigned-forgotten after her. “But you seem to be enjoying it.”

“What can I say? It’s in the blood.”

The evening ends with Rose arching back against the windows, her sticky messy hands tugging strands free from Dave’s hair while he does his best to bring her world down to the two of them. Her plate’s as close to empty as his.


End file.
